


Birdcage Religion

by girlwiththeradishearrings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, and martells, but oh hot damn oberyn, i dont know what im doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwiththeradishearrings/pseuds/girlwiththeradishearrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders what her cheeks would look like with a dusting of freckles, how the sun would kiss her body and leave traces of its affection behind, staining her skin so perhaps the scars would fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birdcage Religion

Abrasions littered her skin and faded like stains as time passed. They varied in size, some blooming ugly and grotesque, swelling from her flesh, others were like fingerprints, subtle and erratic on her body. The purpling blossoms flourished from her rib bones with a lethargic grace, ripening with discolor as they burst in their full potential. They budded along the tender notches of her spine, thriving against the back of her thighs, imprinted with the shape of a sword. Some marks would lose their luster and wither from her, only to be replaced soon after. 

The boredom of ruling a kingdom gave cause for entertainment. That's what she was now: a diversion, an amusing means of distraction.

Her thumb gently grazed the skin of her left wrist. A scab rusted in a half circle along her wrist bone. He'd been wearing mailed gloves that day. They usually did. She wondered if their white gloves displayed any evidence of her chastisement. They could wash away the drops of blood and flakes of skin, but the tokens of Joffrey's affections lasted longer, forcing her to recognize just how inadequate she was. The bruising did not disappear with the water from her bathes, instead they lingered on her skin for her to remember. 

 _I must never forget who I am_ , Sansa thought venomously. _Pawn, wife, traitor's daughter, Stark._ The last name loitered in her mind, remaining long after the other titles became insignificant. _Yes, I am a Stark. They've bathed me in Lannister red and gold, but I will always be Lord Eddard's daughter. Joffrey cannot deprive me of my blood, no matter how hard he tries to drain me of it._

If her maids noticed the scars on her body, they never mentioned them. 

"No, not that one." Her voice was scratchy from disuse and the two maids preparing her looked up in surprise. She had barely spoken at all this past moon, they must have thought the sound of her strange. Ghosts seldom speak.  "The grey one, please." 

"Grey washes you out, milady." The older of the two expressed meekly. "Green would look very fine with your hair." 

"You've such lovely hair," the other girl cooed.

She shook her head, the finely combed sanguine tresses rustling against her shoulders. Green was too bright, drew too much attention. "No, I'd prefer grey today."

The two handmaidens made eye contact and the elder looked up apologetically. "I beg your pardon, milady, but the Queen's requested you be dressed proper…."

She bit her lower lip and applied pressure to a large welted bruise on her hipbone with discrete fingers. She held her breath and waited for the ache to subside, quietly relishing the control she had in that instant. She was not theirs. She belonged to herself. They would not take that from her. Everything else, yes, but not this moment of discrepancy between her whims and their absolute possession of her. She could inflict pain just as easily as Joffrey could. The hurt made her feel empowered.

"Which gown would you prefer, milady?" The younger girl inquired, cradling a fine red lace gown over one arm, while the other was doused in a deep emerald. Both colors were much too lively, cutting deep and revealing too much skin. The red conjured a bitter taste in her mouth. If she wore the color of House Lannister it would only authenticate her affiliation with the lions and her lord husband. She would rather walk upon broken glass than admit to her union, although a weak union it was; their marriage hadn't yet been consummated. 

The green silk was a different matter. The captivating flow of the fabric would be the cause of great observation, and the vivacious color reminded Sansa of Joffrey's eyes. So green they were, glowing, piercing into her. She hated those eyes. 

With a subtle inclination of her head, Sansa chose the green gown. 

The layers of lavish silk slid across her skin and the women laced up her back, the bodice embroidered generously in gold. Tugging gently at the left sleeve of the gown, she concealed the laceration around her wrist. This dress was not hers, see'd never seen it before.

"Did Her Grace send this for me?"

"No, milady," the older maid answered. "It was the Lord Hand. He had them both made." 

_Tywin Lannister… why does he care what a traitor's daughter wears to dinner…?_

But then she remembered. She was incredibly foolish to forget. Cersei often remarked on her stupidity, perhaps she was right to assume Sansa lacked her wits. 

The council representatives had arrived from Dorne to assume their seats on the High Council and attend Joffrey's wedding to Margaery Tyrell. Tyrion had gone to meet them that afternoon with his sellsword and squire. 

That would explain Lord Tywin's gifts: he wished to display his Northern heiress to the new arrivals. She was his pawn to maneuver about the board, and she represented his victory against the Young Wolf and Sansa's claim to the North--by extension _his_. 

Sansa wondered what the Dornish would think of Lord Tywin's spoils of war. Would they look at her with resentment? As if she had been the cause of the North's demise, her brother's defeat, his failure in destroying the Lannisters. Sansa wouldn't be surprised if the Martells and their kin hated her. They held great animosity towards Lord Tywin for aiding Robert on his claim to the throne. It was said that Tywin gave the orders to have Elia and her children murdered. Robb had played the game and lost. Surely Dorne would have liked to see the lions crushed. Would they pity her? 

Somehow their pity would be even worse than their disdain. She didn't need their pity, their empathy. Sansa had survived alone in King's Landing thus far and she would maintain the walls she'd built around herself. No Martell could reach her within the fortress she'd created. 

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing. I have no idea.


End file.
